


pucker up for heaven's sake

by asael



Series: every you  & every me [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Choking, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mind Games, Orgasm Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asael/pseuds/asael
Summary: Claude may have agreed to help Hubert, and Claude may be his prisoner, but he has no intention of trusting Hubert or letting him do as he pleases. Unless, of course, it pleases them both.
Relationships: Claude von Riegan/Hubert von Vestra
Series: every you  & every me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640683
Comments: 34
Kudos: 185





	pucker up for heaven's sake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bucketmouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketmouse/gifts).



> This is a birthday present for [Kels](https://twitter.com/antiquecipher), who is wonderful and who I love very very much! I hope you like this fic! I have been thinking about this universe since I wrote the first one, so it's great to get to come back to it. This is a direct followup to [carve your name into my arm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21940222), so please read that first for context. And as always, please mind the warnings!

Claude has always wanted to visit Enbarr. The history there, the secrets he might uncover - of course it would be seductive for someone like him, someone who always wants to know more, to discover what has been hidden by the march of years.

He would not have guessed that his first trip to Enbarr would be as a prisoner.

It’s not quite as bad as it was the first month. Now that he’s agreed to work with Hubert von Vestra, Claude has been given more freedom - well, _slightly_ more freedom. Hubert isn’t stupid. He’s assigned guards to Claude and given them strict orders on where he is allowed to go and who he might be allowed to speak with. Claude is still a prisoner, for all that he can leave his room whenever he wishes.

It’s an improvement. Claude feels rather certain that this is only the beginning, that he will be able to leverage his assistance for more and more freedoms and, eventually, he’ll have a chance to leave entirely - whether by escaping or because he is released. Either is possible.

But the truth is, he doesn’t want to yet.

If he really wanted to escape, if that were really his main goal, Hubert has given him enough freedom to ensure that he could. It wouldn’t be _easy_ , but the right message to one of his operatives in the city, a distraction at the right time, a simple poison slipped into his guards’ meals… he could flee if he wished, and he would probably succeed.

But right now, that isn’t his primary interest.

No, when Claude paged through Hubert’s notebook, when he figured out the veiled references and carefully-crafted codes within, he found a reason to stay.

 _Those Who Slither in the Dark._ It really is a dramatic name. Claude is sure Hubert’s the one who came up with it - he seems overly fond of a bit of drama now and then, what with all the dark glances and lurking in shadows. But it’s not inaccurate. The idea that, for all these years, a group has been affecting the future of Fódlan from behind the scenes, pushing it down the path that benefits them… well, in truth Claude cannot help but think that the revelation makes certain things make more sense.

The church controls Fódlan in the light of day, binding the people and their rulers to its desires and goals. Those Who Slither in the Dark work in the shadows, turning Fódlan against itself, fomenting war.

And Claude, naturally, can’t simply walk away from something like that.

So he has allied with Hubert, and he’s interested to see where that takes them. 

The truth is, Claude never spared much thought for Hubert when they were at Garreg Mach together. He didn’t ignore him, of course - Claude has only survived this long by cataloging every possible threat, and Hubert was an obvious one. But his clear devotion to Edelgard made him, to be frank, not very interesting. At least not for Claude’s purposes, when what he thought he needed to do at that time was find allies and find out who might be useful for his future plans.

Hubert would never be his ally, and Hubert could not be useful. His priorities were clear, and he never attempted to hide them: support Edelgard in all ways.

So Claude had firmly cataloged him in the ‘possible threat if Edelgard becomes an enemy’ category, and moved on.

Even during the war, though his spies had kept track of Hubert, Edelgard had been his true focus. She was - and is - the one calling the shots, even if Hubert is often the one carrying them out with his own methods. Edelgard is the one whose tactics and strategies he needed to pick apart, Edelgard and Professor Byleth (risen from the dead somehow, and Claude is still awfully curious about that).

He would still like to speak to Edelgard. He’d like to ask her about her plans, how well she’s thought them through, what _exactly_ she thinks she’s doing. But that will have to be for later. Claude is still in Enbarr, and Edelgard is off preparing to march on Faerghus, and Claude hasn’t seen her since he was captured.

It’s Hubert he’s seen. Hubert who visits Enbarr regularly, whenever Edelgard can spare him. Hubert who is surely getting regular reports from his men - half guard, half spies - whenever he can’t detach himself from the army and journey back to the capital. 

It’s Hubert, now, who has Claude’s attention.

He’s an interesting man. That was never in question, even if Claude didn’t bother to pursue that line of thought. That kind of loyalty is something Claude sees in others, but always has difficulty understanding, never having experienced it himself. Hubert’s methods, though - now _those_ Claude can easily understand.

Claude has found that his strength lies in smiles and charm, accepting what people expect from him and playing into those assumptions. He thinks, in some ways, Hubert is the same. He’s carefully crafted his persona of darkness and fear, using intimidation as a skillful weapon. And it’s clear that it’s not just a persona. Hubert is willing to do whatever it takes, regardless of how awful that might end up being. If it achieves his goal - Edelgard’s goal - it’s worth it.

Even if that includes allying with what seem to be the exact creatures that caused Edelgard such deep damage.

Claude doesn’t know the whole story. He read Hubert’s notes - the ones he could get his hands on, and now the ones Hubert has given him since they’ve agreed to work together. But those notes are ones Hubert wrote for himself, which means he had no reason to put in every little detail. There are empty spaces, things that are surely obvious to Hubert but which itch at Claude’s curiosity worse than any bug bite might.

Of course, Claude understands why Hubert would hold such secrets close to his chest. Edelgard is the most important thing in his world, and anything that might put her in danger, might expose her weaknesses, must be kept hidden. Claude can’t fault him for that.

In truth, he finds it admirable.

He wonders, sometimes, what that must feel like. Having the unconditional loyalty and service of a man like Hubert, a man who is clearly willing to do anything asked of him, no matter how dirty it makes his hands. 

To his own dismay, Claude finds it strangely attractive.

Hubert is _not_ an attractive man. He’s too angular, thin and tall and unwelcoming. He deliberately cultivates an unfriendly look, and while Claude does not find it frightening, it’s not what he would call _attractive_ , either. He doesn’t seem to know what colors are, or have any interest in finding ones that might be more flattering on him than black. He is deliberately unpleasant, he is keeping Claude captive, and he’s threatened Claude’s life and physical safety more than once.

It’s unfortunate that Claude has already had Hubert’s cock in his mouth, and wouldn’t mind doing it again.

Maybe it’s the danger of it. Claude’s always had a bit of a taste for that sort of thing - it’s why he took up wyvern-riding, why he used to mix poisons, why he’s never let fear get the best of him. Hubert poses a very real danger to him, and even agreeing to work together hasn’t changed that. Claude might be able to escape if he really wanted to, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t currently at Hubert’s mercy.

And he knows Hubert wants him. He’s known it since the beginning, since Hubert contrived to put him in that dancer’s getup. Hubert might have told himself it was meant to humiliate, but there are a thousand other ways he could have accomplished that. He’d chosen that way because he’d _wanted_ to see it on Claude.

So Claude had played the game, wanting to see how far it went, how far he could push Hubert. 

It hadn’t taken nearly as much effort as he’d expected.

He’d felt triumphant, afterwards, with the taste of Hubert in his mouth. But he’d found himself wondering as well - now that Hubert had given in, would that still be an effective way to manipulate him?

Now that he’d had Claude, would he still want him?

In truth, Claude is used to being treated as more of a curiosity than anything. His list of serious relationships is nonexistent. And while he most assuredly doesn’t want anything like a serious relationship with _Hubert von Vestra_ , of all people, he still finds himself annoyingly disappointed at the thought that Hubert might lose interest so easily.

It is, after all, one of the few holds Claude has over him.

But Claude has no way to test it. Hubert is away, attacking Arianrhod with the rest of Edelgard’s army. Claude can do nothing but spare a thought for the Kingdom soldiers, facing the same army he did. He wishes them luck, or at least survival. After all, he knew some of them, back at school.

Alone in the capital, confined by his ever-present guards and the limited areas Hubert has told them to allow him to roam through, Claude thinks he could easily get bored under different circumstances. But though his movements are limited, he is here for a reason. In order to find everything they can to help them move against Those Who Slither in the Dark, Claude must have access to the Imperial records, to the library, to the archives.

Hubert has stopped short of giving Claude access to his study. Unfair, really, when he only stole something once, but Claude knows there must be all kinds of sensitive information there that Hubert does not want him to have free access to. It’s smart, he supposes, that instead of allowing him to pick through it at his leisure Hubert has provided him with the documents he thinks are relevant.

Smart, but disappointing.

Claude likes to leave his room when he can. It is a prison, after all, no matter how well-appointed it might be. The palace itself is a prison, but the ability to roam a bit more freely helps his dislike of confinement. Besides, the library has an array of comfortable chairs set up near the windows, offering a good deal more light than his own rooms.

The guards stand by the doors, silent, watching him. He supposes he _could_ smash one of the windows and attempt to escape that way, but it seems awfully loud and messy. He ignores them, flipping pages in books and taking notes as he does so.

Mostly he is looking for bits and pieces that will allow them to act against the representatives of Those Who Slither in the Dark. They need people in human guise to act for them, they have always needed those people, and with clever political moves and perhaps a few knives in the dark it should be possible to remove a good deal of that support. So Claude picks out rumors and mentions, odd lines in account books and records of family legends about monsters that offer power.

Hubert has already shared his own suspicions. Claude is finding more, and ways to take action that might not immediately reveal their own plans to strike back against their supposed allies.

The truth is, Claude sometimes finds himself enjoying this. He’s always liked this kind of thing - research, digging up secrets and exposing them to the light. He’s gotten in trouble for it plenty of times, and used the information he finds plenty of other times. And, he has to admit, it’s somewhat less stressful than trying to hold the Alliance together.

He’s filing more away than only what he’s meant to be researching, though. Of course he is. Claude is a prisoner, and he needs to be making plans for the future. For after the war is over, for better or for worse. Edelgard may choose to use him as a political prisoner, use him against anyone in the Alliance who doesn’t immediately obey her.

Or, he knows, she could use him against Almyra.

He doesn’t think she knows about that yet, because he doesn’t think Hubert has figured it out. Likely he suspects, but Hubert has more than enough on his plate already. Claude’s hope is that he simply thinks Claude is the younger son of an Almyran noble, or perhaps even a peasant who’s clawed his way far above his station.

If they realize they have an Almyran prince imprisoned, things could change very drastically, very quickly. Claude needs to plan for that as well. He needs to arm himself with every possible advantage, and it is impossible to be sure of what exactly he will need to know.

So he pores through old texts and collected letters, account books and volumes of family history. He keeps an eye out for anything that might be useful. His written notes get long. His mental notes get longer.

And then he has a visitor.

His guards, of course, have been ordered to keep him separate from anyone that might offer him aid, anyone who might be one of his spies or who might be induced to contact them. That includes almost everyone, according to Hubert, which is frankly a bit flattering.

It does not, apparently, include Edelgard’s uncle.

Lord Arundel enters the library with only the mildest glance of surprise at the guards flanking its entrance. They look at him, too, and Claude sees a flicker of uncertainty cross their faces as they decide whether they ought to stop him or not. In the end, they settle back to their places, expressions going blank, though their gazes are sharp.

Arundel looks only mildly more interested when he sees Claude. Claude slides an easy smile onto his own face as he assesses the situation. Hubert has told him about this man, of course. Hubert has told him that this man is likely the head of all Those Who Slither within Adrestia.

Claude will have to be careful.

“So von Vestra is allowing you to roam,” Arundel says. He has the looks and bearing of an Adrestian noble. If he isn’t human, then Claude can’t tell - but then, no one could tell that Tomas was not what he seemed, either. “He must be quite fond of you.”

Claude stops his tongue before he can say what he initially intends to - _is Hubert really fond of anyone besides his lady?_ Arundel’s eyes are on him, assessing, almost lascivious, and Claude realizes abruptly that chances are incredibly good that he thinks Claude is, indeed, there because Hubert is fond of him.

All anyone knows for certain is that Edelgard took Claude as a prisoner after his defeat, and gave him to Hubert. Cut off from any real sources of information, Claude can’t say what sort of rumors have been flying since then, but he knows what _he_ attempted to make people think - parading through the halls in that dancer getup, playing games with Hubert in front of his servants.

He’d done it to get under Hubert’s skin, to escalate their game to the next level. But if it means that Arundel believes he’s nothing more than Hubert’s war prize - well, that’s perfect, in Claude’s opinion.

So he softens his tongue, merely shrugs and smiles and leans into what the man must think of him. “I do get awfully bored without him here. He has been kind enough to allow me to come here for entertainment.”

“Indeed,” Arundel says, still eyeing him. He walks closer. He has the sort of attitude Claude has come to expect from noblemen who have had power all their lives - he can walk where he wishes, say what he likes, do as he pleases. That would make him dangerous even without the possibility of a connection to Fódlan’s secret enemy. 

He reaches out to pick up the document in front of Claude - without asking, of course. “What do you have here?”

“A translation,” Claude says smoothly. His notes are in Almyran - not just Almyran, but a code he created for himself, though he does not expect Arundel, or indeed most residents of Fódlan, to be able to realize that. Luckily, the book currently in front of him is innocuous. It’s a book of myths of the Empire, the sort of thing a child might be given as a gift, with lovely illustrations.

“Fairy stories,” Arundel says, condescension dripping from his words. He drops the papers back on the desk. “I’d heard you were clever, Claude von Riegan - too clever for this sort of nonsense. But then, I suppose that isn’t why our young Count Vestra keeps you around.”

His eyes rove over Claude. Thankfully, Claude is no longer wearing the revealing dancer outfit - it’s back in his room somewhere, it’s really no fun to wear when Hubert isn’t around to be distracted by it. Instead he’s wearing simple pants and a loose shirt, finely made but covering, and for that he is relieved. 

He doesn’t like the way Arundel is looking at him. It’s not quite lust, not simple interest. He is looking at Claude as if Claude is an object, nothing more - and an object that does not belong to him. Claude can see in his eyes, the set of his shoulders, that he doesn’t consider Claude any more important than a toy.

A toy that he could use easily, and break if he wished, and the consequences would hardly touch him.

Claude wishes that weren’t true, but in fact, he knows it is. He has little to protect him here. He can’t use his former position as Alliance leader - the Alliance is no more. He can’t use his Almyran roots, not unless he wants to reveal himself to be a _much_ more valuable prisoner than they think. For all Arundel knows, Claude is only here because Hubert wanted a toy to play with, and unfortunately, that’s close enough to the truth to offer him little protection.

Claude is uncomfortably aware that Arundel can do as he pleases here. Somewhere in the back of his mind are the instincts that have kept him alive for this long, through assassination attempts and hatred and five years of war. They are noting everything within arm’s reach that can be used as a weapon. Noting the steady gaze of the guards by the door, then dismissing them - they won’t help Claude, and may in fact come to Arundel’s aid if this turns into a struggle.

Not that there is any indication it will. Claude does not entirely know why he’s so on edge. The man has only looked at him, come close to him, made a few insulting comments. No direct threats. He has not even tried to touch Claude.

But even so, there’s a part of Claude that senses danger. A part of him that is holding very still, fixing a smile on his face, attempting to appear harmless and not worth the attention. Under these circumstances, the best way to survive is to seem uninteresting.

“I’ve always liked stories like these,” he says, and flips a page to a lovely illustration of a princess in a tower. “Especially in the middle of war, don’t we all need to escape now and then?” He smiles, the impish grin he often used back at Garreg Mach, the one that made half the student population dismiss him as nothing more than a clever prankster.

Arundel’s eyes flicker to the drawing, and he chuckles dryly. “Are you hoping for an escape, then? Or are you content to sit in your tower and hope for a prince to come?”

“My kingdom is gone,” Claude says, and tries to ignore the way the words sting. “What use would escape be? Better to stay here, where instead of a prince I have a dragon to protect me.” Whether Hubert _would_ protect him from anything, if it came to that, is very much in question. But Arundel doesn’t know that. 

The rather unsubtle reminder that Claude is nominally Hubert’s makes Arundel chuckle again, and he straightens from where he was leaning in, putting some distance between him and Claude. Some of the tension in Claude’s body loosens, and he realizes he was holding himself very, very still.

“Opportunistic, aren’t you? Defeated by our empress, so you charm her shadow instead. And no doubt if you please him properly, you’ll be rewarded when this is all over.” Claude can practically see the interest leaving Arundel’s eyes as he slots Claude neatly into the role of _ambitious war prize_. 

He smiles as sweetly as he can, and plays into it. “I know how this will all end, now. Better to be on the winning side.”

“Yes,” Arundel says, and he’s moving away now, towards the shelves he had initially been headed to. Claude is no longer worth his time. “If you can’t win your war, secure your future on your back. Very clever of you.” It’s condescending, insulting, but more than anything - dismissive.

Claude thinks he ought to be offended. Instead, all he feels is the same sick sense of satisfaction he always used to feel when someone underestimated him. He smiles, bends over his ‘translation’. “I’ve got to look after myself, my lord.”

Arundel snorts, shakes his head, and plucks a few books from the shelf in front of him. “Rather than fairy tales, your time would be better spent finding ways to keep Count Vestra happy. He can be awfully disagreeable - you wouldn’t want him to get tired of you.” He shoots Claude one last look, a superior smile. “Though if he does, I’ve no doubt I can find another use for you.”

Not waiting for a response, he leaves the library, passing by the guards as if they do not exist. Claude watches him go, eyes narrowed, his crafty thoughts already working on something. He stands eventually, drifts over to the shelves Arundel was looking at - account books. Something to pick through, Claude thinks.

He does not like that man.

***

Though Claude has made an effort with the guards, they’re too well trained, and the servants too frightened of potential consequences, to let their lips loosen. Cut off as he is from any real source of information, he doesn’t know how the war is going. Not until Hubert returns.

They won Arianrhod, as it turns out, but the victory was hollow. Claude is aware of Hubert’s plans, of his strike at Cornelia - one of the agents of their true enemy - but he also knows Hubert was hoping it would go unnoticed in the chaos of war, excused as nothing but a normal casualty of war. Instead, they won Arianrhod and lost it, and may have put Those Who Slither in the Dark on alert.

Hubert is not pleased. But he isn’t entirely _displeased_ , either - it could have gone better, but it was not such a disaster that he can’t count it as a victory.

He says that in so many words, an efficient and detailed description of the battle and its aftermath. They are in Claude’s room - his prison cell - sharing tea. Claude has not poisoned it. He’s had trouble getting his hands on any so far, and has not yet decided whether he would use it if he did.

“Well,” Claude says, keep his tone neutral, “at least Edelgard’s war seems to be going well.”

Hubert looks at him, eyes sharp. “Her victory - _our_ victory - is without question. Faerghus and the church lack the strength to win against us. It’s only a matter of time.”

Claude almost asks if Hubert believes that’s really necessary. If he believes this war, and all the damage and chaos it has caused, is worth the result. But there’s no point in asking. Claude already knows the answer, and it doesn’t matter anyway. There is nothing Claude can do to stop any of this. He’s already played his last card, and lost the Alliance because of it.

“To your victory, then,” he says, mocking enough to make Hubert frown, and raises his teacup. “But if Those Who Slither are already making their moves against you, perhaps it’s time to stop worrying about this war and start worrying about the next one.”

“Yes,” Hubert says, and he looks at Claude then, assessing. “That is why you are here, with your head still on your shoulders. And if we are to speak of that, then we will need to speak of Lord Arundel.”

“An unpleasant man,” Claude says. Though it has been a couple weeks, Claude remembers their meeting in the library vividly. He remembers, most of all, how strongly his subconscious saw the man as a threat. How careful he’d needed to be around him.

“He mentioned you,” Hubert says.

“Did he?” Claude says, and he leans forward in his chair. “What did he say?”

Hubert smiles then, the faintest curl of his lip. “He seemed pleased that I had found something that might distract me. He said that now he understood why I continue to return to Enbarr though the war is far from here.” That is amusement Claude sees deep within Hubert’s eyes, he is certain. 

“Aw,” Claude says with a fake pout, “he thinks I’m nothing but a pretty face. That really stings my pride, you know?”

“I can tell you’re quite insulted,” Hubert says. “How terrible to be underestimated.”

“It’s the worst,” Claude says, and he thinks of the records he pored over in the library, the things he found. He ought to lay it all out for Hubert, begin to make new plans and refine their strategies, but he isn’t quite in the mood for it yet.

Hubert’s eyes are on him, and Claude can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“He told me,” Hubert says, measuring out each word carefully, “that I should be certain to use you properly on my return.”

Maybe it’s the way Hubert says it. Maybe it’s the way his eyes rest on Claude, heavy and assessing. Claude thinks he can see just a hint of interest there - of hunger - but the truth is, Hubert is difficult for him to read.

He’s made educated guesses, mostly. Assuming that putting him in a dancer’s outfit meant that, on some level, Hubert found him attractive. Goading him into acting on that attraction, and allowing himself to enjoy it. He knows, at least, that Hubert wanted him then. He does not know if Hubert wants him now.

“Oh?” Claude says, and he sets his teacup down and leans back into his chair, careless and easy. “And are you going to?”

What Claude knows is that he _wants_ Hubert to want him. Here, he is in Hubert’s power, almost completely. His achievements - his army, his kingdom, his careful balance of Alliance power - have been shattered and taken from him, and his life is only intact because of this man sitting across from him. 

Hubert has too much power over him. The balance is too far in his favor. Claude doesn’t like that.

And he sees, in Hubert’s eyes on him, a way to take some of that power for himself.

If Hubert wants him, then he has a lever. A string to pull. Even more so because Claude does not think Hubert is used to wanting people - not with that bone-deep, gut-wrenching need that is impossible to ignore. Not in a way that makes you vulnerable, a way that leaves you open to them.

Claude doesn’t know if Hubert wants him like that. And, in truth, _seduction_ has never been a tool he’s entirely at ease using. Flirtation, certainly, clever words and easy smiles. But seduction, thick and heavy and dangerous, is something else. If Hubert doesn’t already want him like that, Claude doesn’t know if he can make it happen.

But he’ll never find out if he doesn’t try.

Hubert is watching him still, and he leans forward a bit, the corners of his mouth turning up. It’s not quite a smile. “I haven’t decided yet.”

That should not spark interest in Claude - should not be anything more than a sign that their game has begun.

And yet it seems that playing this game with Hubert has become something to look forward to.

“I see,” Claude says. He wonders if he ought to have worn that dancer outfit Hubert is fond of - that would have been effectively distracting. “Does it please you that everyone thinks you keep me here as your toy?” They must think that now. Before, they may have believed he was captured in order to help them - but Claude has done nothing to help with the war, and yet Hubert has kept him alive and locked up, instead of ransoming him or disposing of him. 

Of course, he is helping with another war entirely. But no one knows that.

“Yes,” Hubert says, and somehow that wasn’t what Claude expected to hear. He feels his lips twitch into a smile that’s almost genuine. “I find it very pleasing that all of Fódlan believes you’re spreading your legs for me.” His eyes travel down Claude’s body, lingering on his thighs. Claude is sitting in a careless sprawl, one leg nearly draped over the arm of his chair. Suddenly he is very aware of that, and equally aware of how - _exposed_ it makes him.

He doesn’t move.

“My reputation will be utterly ruined,” Claude says, laughter in his voice. His eyes are half-lidded, watching Hubert watch him.

“Perhaps,” Hubert says, and when Claude shifts, Hubert’s eyes follow each tiny movement of his body. “Opinion seems to be split. Either you’re the whore of the Alliance, willingly warming my bed to stay in Edelgard’s favor, or you’re a captive victim to my debauched desires, unfortunate and unwilling. It’s a pretty story either way.”

“I don’t see why it can’t be both,” Claude says. Hubert has only been looking, his gaze heavy and intriguing. Claude does not think that _looking_ is enough. He wants Hubert to break. He wants Hubert to touch him. “Though I would certainly like to hear about your debauched desires.”

“Would you?” Hubert says. His gaze travels up Claude’s body until their eyes meet. Claude still cannot read him, but he knows one thing for certain: Hubert wants him.

A victory. But not a true victory until he can make Hubert act on it.

“Of course,” Claude says. “I can’t imagine that my mouth is the only thing you’ve thought about.”

He puts it right out in the open, this thing they haven’t spoken about. Hubert’s hands in his hair, Hubert thrusting into his mouth, _using_ him. Claude’s hand on himself, because he’d liked it, he’d liked knowing he had that tiny bit of power over Hubert and, in some dark and hidden part of himself, he’d liked being used that way.

“No,” Hubert says. “It isn’t.” And then he stands, all smooth movement and rustling fabric. There isn’t much space between their chairs, so it takes him less than a moment to skirt the table between them, their half-empty teacups cooling on it. He is tall, looming over Claude.

Claude feels the prick of excitement, the thrill of knowing that they’re teetering on a precipice. Hubert reaches out, tilts his face up. One gloved finger runs over the spot near his eye, long since healed, where Hubert slid the tip of his knife into Claude’s skin.

It had been a threat, or a promise, or an odd, sideways seduction. Just like this. 

Claude smiles.

“I’ve thought,” Hubert says, “of having you any way I please. I’ve thought of breaking you, until you wish for nothing but my pleasure.” His hand drifts downward, catching hold of Claude’s chin. “You’re proud and clever, Claude von Riegan, and I have no doubt that you’re strong. I know the game you’re playing. It would be a waste to break you like that, but you make it rather tempting.”

“I think it’s very interesting that you think you could,” Claude says, and he meets Hubert’s eyes. Something glitters in the depths there. Lust, a challenge, pure interest - all of the above.

Hubert does not respond in words. Instead, his fingers leave Claude’s chin and tangle in his hair. Claude’s head is pulled back roughly, the shock of pain leaving him gasping, and then Hubert’s mouth covers his own. 

It’s a punishing kiss, a biting one, and Claude’s mouth is already open beneath Hubert’s. Hubert’s tongue slips inside, devouring him, and Claude’s own need sparks to life. He returns the kiss, arching up against Hubert’s grip on his hair.

Hubert’s other hand settles around his neck, pushing him back against the chair, pressing hard enough to cut Claude’s air off. Hubert’s mouth still covers his in that biting and hungry kiss, and Claude can’t catch his breath. He doesn’t even try at first, until it all becomes too much and something in his subconscious mind tries to panic. He struggles against Hubert’s grip, and Hubert squeezes once, hard, and then lets him go.

Claude gasps, catching his breath, angry at himself for showing any weakness in front of Hubert but aware that, despite everything - _because_ of everything - his cock has grown hard between his legs. 

Hubert is smiling, a gleam of triumph in his eyes, and Claude really can’t have that. He reaches out, sliding his hands up Hubert’s thighs, unhooking his belt buckle with easy grace. Hubert is hard too, and Claude moves then, leaning in to mouth at the cloth above his erection, pleased by the stuttering breath that falls from Hubert’s lips.

“Take your clothing off,” Hubert says, and it’s not a request. “Get on the bed.”

Claude considers, for a moment, pushing back - refusing, or turning the game in another direction. But he can’t deny that he wants that, too. That his body wants nothing more than to be touched, to be used. And isn’t this a sort of victory? Proof positive that Hubert wants him, and wants him enough that Claude can use it.

Claude tries not to think too hard about how good it feels to be wanted. He has no desire to allow Hubert to get any hooks into him - they may be allies of a sort, but Hubert is dangerous, and neither of them can trust the other.

He stands, and Hubert steps back to allow him to move. Claude strips, slowly and deliberately. He makes no seductive moves, no coy smiles. None of that is necessary - only the tension between them, slowly rising as he peels off his shirt, his trousers, his smallclothes. Until he is bare before Hubert, his desire evident.

Claude is under no illusions, positive or negative, about his appearance. He has a pleasing enough face, and his body has been shaped by years of training. Archery and wyvern riding have given him lean muscles, and even in these weeks of captivity he’s been able to exercise, alone in his room. Thanks to his fighting style - from a distance, preferably in the air - and the healing powers of his crest, he doesn’t have nearly as many scars as most warriors. There are a few, here and there - scar tissue on his shoulder from a lucky arrow, a silvery line down his side from a sword blow he couldn’t quite dodge. But he is well-made and mostly unmarred and, objectively, attractive.

Of course, Claude knows well that plenty of people would say differently. Here in Fódlan it’s the color of his skin, the foreign looks that mark him as an outsider. In Almyra, it was his green eyes, so like his mother’s. For some people that’s enough to decide that as objectively pleasing as his form might be, he is still, to them, unattractive. Or - and really, this isn’t much better - _exotic_ , something to be sampled and tossed aside, then gossiped about with friends.

Claude raises his chin, a smile on his lips. It’s a disguise, as most of his smiles are. In truth, he already knows that Hubert doesn’t fall into either of those categories. He finds Claude attractive - that much is clear. But though he may view Claude as a curiosity, it isn’t because he’s foreign. It’s because of how he thinks, his schemes, his cleverness.

Claude hasn’t yet decided how he feels about that. So he smiles, and he looks at Hubert looking at him, and he doesn’t show an ounce of shame.

“Well?” he says, and Hubert’s eyes flicker upward, his composure momentarily shaken by - lust, perhaps. “Are you just going to look?”

Hubert raises an eyebrow. “I believe I told you to get on the bed.”

Again, Claude thinks about resisting. Thinks about making Hubert force him there, or try to. Claude is, in fact, fairly certain he’s stronger than Hubert if pure physicality is what’s in play. But Hubert has access to magic that Claude, no matter what he studied in school, can’t come close to.

Some part of Claude, the part that likes to glide his hand through a candle flame and see if it will burn, would be very interested in seeing what Hubert could do with that magic in a situation like this.

But as intriguing as that might be, Claude thinks it’s more than likely he’d end up in over his head. He tucks that idea away, in with all the others that involve pushing Hubert’s buttons and seeing what might result. Better to focus on the game they’re playing now, rather than one he may not ever wish to play.

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Claude says, and watches the expression that flickers across Hubert’s face. Something else to tuck away for later. He slides onto the tall bed, legs dangling over the edge, leaning back so that he can look up into Hubert’s face. “Like this?”

“On your back,” Hubert says, and he steps in close, pushing Claude back onto the bed. The fingers of his other hand press against Claude’s thigh, the fabric of his gloves a strange sensation against the sensitive skin of Claude’s inner thigh. He’s between Claude’s legs now, still fully clothed, and his eyes are alight with interest and something else, something more avaricious. He smiles. “Have you been fucked before, Duke Riegan? Your body seems to know what it’s doing.”

He reaches out, wraps a gloved hand around Claude’s half-hard cock. His strokes are rough enough to make Claude gasp, and it takes a good deal of self control to keep from thrusting into his grip. By the time he lets Claude go, Claude is fully erect and aching to be touched again.

“Bad news,” Claude says. “I haven’t got any oil here. So unless you’re planning to do this dry…” He hopes not. Claude enjoys quite a number of things, but he doesn’t think that would be one of them.

“You needn’t worry about that.” Hubert is smiling still, and he leans over Claude, trails a hand up his body. “Did you think I wouldn’t be prepared?” With an easy movement, he retrieves a vial of oil from a pocket.

Claude realizes then that Hubert planned for this. That he expected it, or hoped for it, or perhaps was simply planning for every eventuality and _fucking Claude von Riegan_ was probable enough to make that list. He flushes, annoyed and for some reason aroused by that, which only serves to annoy him more. It’s a move in the game that he hadn’t expected from Hubert, who had seemed - if anything - somewhat disturbed after their first unplanned encounter.

Either Claude read him wrong, or he’s bounced back from that quite well. He isn’t sure how to feel about that - but if he is being truly honest with himself, there’s a part of Claude that’s appreciative.

After all, he _wants_ Hubert to fuck him.

He moves back on the bed so Hubert can settle between his legs, spreading them wider without shame. He lets his head fall back on the bed. Then Hubert’s fingers, slick with oil and ungloved, are pressing inside of him. Claude welcomes it, raising his hips, relaxing against the intrusion.

“You really have been thinking about this,” he says. “You came prepared and everything. You know, I didn’t think you had it in you, Hubert. But you’ve got a real filthy mind, don’t you?”

He expects Hubert to respond, if only to tell him to be silent. He hasn’t yet decided if he’ll obey or not. But instead he feels Hubert’s mouth on him - on his inner thighs, the skin there vulnerable and sensitive. It’s something harsher than a kiss, more delicate than a bite, but there’s the brush of Hubert’s teeth against his skin, and it takes Claude an effort to keep from gasping.

Hubert slides another finger into him, pressing deep, stretching him.

“This is what you really wanted me here for, isn’t it?” Claude is pleased with his own ability to keep his voice level. He does not want Hubert to know the effect this is having on him, though that’s a foolish desire when his cock is already hard and leaking. “Strategy is such a good excuse, when what you were really looking for was a warm body. What, can’t get anyone without taking them captive? Kind of sad, you know.”

Again Hubert does not raise his head, does not speak to respond to Claude’s taunts. Instead his teeth dig into Claude’s tender flesh, biting him hard. At the same time, he curls his fingers, hooking them against Claude’s prostate, and a mingled flash of pleasure and pain rockets through him.

Claude loses his composure then, gasping and arching. It is not a gasp of pain. It takes all the self-control he can muster to keep from writhing under Hubert’s attentions, the fingers pressing against that sweet spot, the teeth biting up and down his thighs.

He can hear the pleasure in Hubert’s voice when he finally takes his teeth from Claude’s thigh and speaks. “I have a theory, Duke Riegan, that you like a little pain in your pleasure. Perhaps more than a little. I have a theory, as well, that you like to be used.” He slides his fingers out of Claude, and Claude feels the loss. “So taunt me as you like. I’ll have you begging for it before we’re finished.”

Claude smiles, though his voice is still shaky. “Yeah? Prove it, lapdog.”

Hubert does not undress. He only unfastens his belt, his pants, enough to free his cock. He’s hard, but Claude already knew that, already knows the shape and size of Hubert, knows how he tastes. Hubert wraps his hands around Claude’s thighs, already marked with red bites, and spreads them wider.

“Since you’ve asked so nicely,” he says, and begins to press into Claude. He goes slow, taking his time, entering Claude inch by inch. Claude tries not to push back against Hubert’s cock, but it’s difficult. The truth is, he wants Hubert inside him, he wants to feel full and stretched by the girth of his cock. But he manages to hold on to the shreds of his self-control until Hubert bottoms out inside him, until he can hear Hubert’s own stuttering breaths, the proof of his need.

Then he allows himself a surge of triumph, a feeling of victory. He meets Hubert’s eyes, feels the man’s thick cock balls-deep inside him, and he smiles.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” he says.

A flicker of some emotion Claude can’t name passes over Hubert’s face. Then he smirks and pulls out of Claude, a slow slick burn, before thrusting back in - faster this time, harder, the head of his cock brushing hard against that tender place inside of Claude.

This time, Claude can’t stop himself from crying out, from arching against Hubert’s intrusion.

“Look at you,” Hubert says, his voice tight with pleasure. “Moaning already. They may call you the Master Tactician, but this is what you were made for.” Gripping Claude’s hips, he pulls back and fucks into him again, drawing another cry from Claude. “You take a cock so well.”

“ _Harder_ ,” Claude says, because he needs more, because he can’t stop himself, even though the moment he says it he knows it was the wrong thing to say. Hubert goes slower instead, pulling out with an achingly slow movement, pushing into him again, his fingers gripping Claude’s thighs.

“You want it so badly,” Hubert says, and now he reaches out, for the first time wrapping his fingers around Claude’s cock. Claude is sensitive, is needy, and the touch is almost enough to make him whimper. He catches it just in time, but Hubert smiles anyway. Too perceptive. Claude doesn’t like that. “I suppose it’s no surprise. You’ve been all alone here, no one to use you properly.”

He pulls out of Claude again, and this time thrusts into him hard, the force of it sending Claude’s head back against the sheets. He cries out again, a breathless, needy sound, and grips the sheets beneath him.

“Perhaps this time when I leave I’ll give you to the guards. I’ll tell them they can have you whenever they want.” Hubert is fucking Claude in earnest now, using Claude’s hole without remorse. His eyes are hungry, and his hand on Claude is pushing him to the brink, until Claude can do nothing but writhe beneath him, lost in his own pleasure. “Or perhaps I’ll keep you for my own use, so you’re hungry for it whenever I return. So you know that I’m the only one who can give you what you need.”

Claude is close, so close, and with every thrust Hubert is sliding against his prostate, sending waves of pleasure through him. His back arches, he knows he’s almost there, and then - 

Then Hubert wraps a cruel hand around the base of his cock and stops moving completely. Claude is left panting, breathless, and he needs it, he needs more. He glares up at Hubert with a baleful eye, but he can’t find any words, he can’t summon the right things to say that might make Hubert give him what he needs.

“Have you forgotten already?” Hubert says, and his eyes are alight with lust and power and a thousand other things, looking at Claude. “Beg me like the slut you are.”

And then Hubert moves, sliding into Claude again, so slow. His hand around the base of Claude’s cock, the slow movement inside him, is enough to tease but not enough to push him over the brink, and Claude can’t think. Claude moves his hips, trying to get _more_ , to get what he needs, but the angle Hubert holds him at gives him nothing.

He gasps, breathless, and he gives in.

“ _Please_ ,” Claude begs, his voice raw. “Fuck me.”

And it’s enough, or maybe Hubert just can’t take it anymore either. He releases Claude’s cock and fucks into him hard again, rough and uncaring, and it only takes two thrusts before Claude is coming. It hits him like a lightning bolt and he knows he cries out, a wordless moan of pleasure, and he doesn’t care at all.

The aftershocks are still moving through him as Hubert thrusts into him again and again, using him mercilessly, until finally he tenses and comes with a low moan, emptying himself inside Claude, filling him with Hubert’s spend.

Afterward, Claude feels like things ought to be awkward, but they aren’t. Hubert pulls out of him, leaving an empty ache and a mess. He presses a kiss, just one, to Claude’s shoulder. Claude retrieves water and a cloth, and cleans up his own mess and Hubert’s, though he’s a bit sore. Hubert seems pleased, Claude _feels_ pleased.

He’s not sure who won this game. He thinks he did, but he also feels certain _Hubert_ thinks the same thing.

Hubert straightens up his clothing, and looks at Claude, and Claude smiles. He isn’t dressed yet, doesn’t seem any reason to be, and despite their recent activities, Hubert’s eyes still roam.

Claude likes that.

“I’d almost forgotten,” he says. “You mentioned Lord Arundel.”

Hubert raises an eyebrow. “Is that who you were thinking of this whole time?”

Claude makes a face, and sees traces of amusement on Hubert’s, and he feels - he’s not sure. He’s not sure how he feels about any of this, but that’s been true from the beginning.

“I have a few things to show you,” he says, and then he retrieves his notes, and lays out the plan he’d come up with after those moments in the library with Arundel. The plan to trap him, to strip him of his lands and wealth and support, to destroy him as completely as possible without yet taking his life.

Claude’s first strategy against Those Who Slither in the Dark. It will work. It will erode their foundation in Adrestian society, and ruin the power base of their strongest player in Fódlan.

Hubert’s earned it, he thinks. Now the game is really getting fun.


End file.
